


Fly Me To The Moon

by Owenjones



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s, Apollo 11, Crowley Loves Outer Space (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), M/M, Moon Landing, Mutual Pining, Space Omens, Space Race
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owenjones/pseuds/Owenjones
Summary: Crowley spent much of the 1960s on the sideline of the Space Race, cheering humanity on. And now, the biggest event of the decade is about to take off, and he is determined to watch it with Aziraphale by his side.Aziraphale seems strangely hesitant to join him, though.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley found himself on the doorstep of the Soho bookshop one evening, hesitant. 

Before making his presence known, he took a moment to glance upward. Not towards Heaven, but at the few stars who managed to pinprick their way through London’s blanket of smog and light pollution. The moon shone down on him too, though it was only a barely visible sliver. It had been waning, but now was on the turn, getting ready to fill up the sky again. That’s how it always went: forever fluctuating, pulling back and reaching forward. Getting close before pushing away and starting the process all over again.

The moon hadn’t been the only thing that was waning recently; he hoped that this visit would prove to be successful in bringing him and Aziraphale back to speaking terms. His heart was setting a record speed, but he knocked slowly, so as to not reveal the fact that he hadn’t yet figured out how to be anything but too fast. 

The stubborn voice, protesting, “I’m afraid we are very much closed,” came as more of a relief than expected. It was the gravitational pull that grounded him when his flyaway brain was trying to pull him in every direction.

“S’me,” he said. And apparently that was enough.

The door swung open after a pause, and the angel gestured that he was welcomed inside. Crowley sauntered his way in, “Hullo, Aziraphale.” 

“What do you want?” he said. A frumpy frown resting on his face despite the rest of his body only signaling fondness. 

Crowley was already making his way towards the back room, saying over his shoulder, “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“Ah, Arrangement business?” Aziraphale followed him back, “I’ll start the kettle.”

As Crowley settled into his usual spot on the sofa, he said, “Yeah, maybe something stronger?”

Aziraphale shot him a look, his eyes saying _oh, it’s one of those propositions._ Nevertheless, after a sigh, Aziraphale began searching for the appropriate drink for the mood, “Any requests?”

“Dry vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred.”

“Oh?” he looked down at Crowley who was draped comfortably over the arm of the couch by then, “Er, is there a reason why?”

“What?”

“Why not stirred? Does that change the way it tastes? I’m afraid I don’t have a shaker, but if you insist on it, I’m sure I could make do.”

“Ngk,” Crowley shook his head, scolding himself inwardly. All the coolness of the line had been strained away when he said it, “Nevermind, I’ll take whatever you’re drinking.”

“How about… oh, I have some scotch in here.”

“Sure.” 

Aziraphale took great pride in preparing the glasses, ensuring that each one had a perfect amount. His careful hands enthralled Crowley, the way they fluttered lightly over their work. A clink of ice against glass was the cherry on top. He handed one over to Crowley, who gladly took a drink. 

He began trying to read the future in the ice of his drink as though it were tea leaves. Hoping that they would reveal a way to say what he wanted to say.

The 1960s seemed to fly by in an instant. Everything was traveling at top-speed, hurtling towards the Next Big Thing. More so than ever before. 

But, the decade, as fast as it was going, was only a meteor that burned away as soon as the atmosphere caught hold of it. 

It was inevitable of course, but Crowley was a bit put out. While he felt it was as pointless to hold on to old trends as it was to wish an ephemeral flash in the sky stuck around, he would still miss the swinging sixties and everything that came with it.

Cinema had started to get good, music had started to get _really_ good, and technology was more mystifying than ever. Crowley wondered how he had ever lived without cassette tapes. Each new hairdo and band and piece of James Bond merchandise excited him to no end. Humans were also more… human than ever before. 

The Civil Rights Movement had really gone into motion, and bricks flying through the air in New York suggested more movements were on their way. Many drunken arguments were had as to whether the wave of counterculture* was devised by one side or another. 

Crowley argued that questioning authority was a basic tenant of Downstairs, while Aziraphale pointed out that advances in civil rights are good, and therefore Heavenly. 

“So, answer me this, angel,” he pointed with an unsteady hand, “What does the Bible say about… free love?”

Aziraphale paused a moment in consideration, before answering, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”

He scoffed, “That doesn’t mean the same thing, and you know it.”

“Oh, I disagree,” said Aziraphale, far too smugly to be naive.

“You’re being ridiculous.” …And so on. For hours.

*(In fact, that one had been entirely attributable to humans). 

At the same time, the US and USSR had been so busy puffing out their chests to each other that they made nearly everyone wonder how close they were to the end times. Crowley in particular had spent many sleepless nights agonizing over whether Hell would have bothered to inform him if the Antichrist had been born. 

Sure he wasn’t the highest ranked, but he was their representative on Earth. That seems like information that would have been relevant to his job, right? But… forgetting to tell him about the biggest event since the Big Bang sounds like exactly the sort of thing Hellish bureaucrats would do. But, it turned out humans don’t need supernatural entities to push themselves to the brink of the apocalypse. They could do that just fine all on their own.

The years moved on. The Cold War, still chilly, managed to thaw a bit. The sky remained free of fish and locusts and missiles, thank Whoever. The sense of imminent doom had passed, though not before Crowley had obtained his own weapon of mass destruction. Just in case. 

Crowley, of course, kept close track of the Space Race during the decade too. At first it was simply to distract himself from the ticking doomsday clock, but he found himself enjoying the less tense competition between countries play out. Similar to how a televised game of football satisfies some primal human itch to watch two opposing tribes fight it out, without any of the squeamishness that comes from a real battle. 

Mention Sputnik on the right day, and Crowley won’t be able to contain a soft smile. He had an absurd amount of celebratory vodka with Aziraphale on the day of its launch back in ‘57. 

A few years later when Yuri Gagarin became the first person to explore the firmament, Crowley invited Aziraphale for a similar night in. He’d even emptied the nearest store of vodka in preparation, but Aziraphale turned him down. 

The rejection had been polite enough that the next time a human had been shot into orbit, Crowley offered again. Aziraphale said no a bit more harshly that time. He took the hint. 

Crowley kept up with the developments anyway, drinking away each benchmark alone in his stylish flat with only his telly for company. 

It was a nice routine until the first fatalities of the Space Race rolled in, and made him start to dread reading headlines. He tuned out a bit after that. 

That was how one particular bit of news managed to escape his notice and catch him blindsided early July 1969. It turned out there was still one more surprise in store before the new decade showed up. 

He had been listening to a new song on the radio, rather enjoying himself, when the BBC announcer’s posh ramblings interrupted, “David Bowie released the song Space Oddity today, just days before the historic moon flight--”

Crowley snapped his head to the radio, “What?” But the car honking that resulted from his swerve drowned out anything else the announcer said. 

He turned the volume up with a glance, but the host seemed much more interested in talking about the recording process for the song. Fascinating for sure, but _had they said something about space?_

A trip to the nearest newsstand confirmed it: the Americans were on the cusp of sending somebody to go walk on the moon. He perused through the article to catch every detail he could. He couldn’t believe it! They were actually going to do it, the crazy bastards! 

There was no way he was going to miss it. His mind already raced with thoughts of miracled plane tickets, hotel room bookings, and American car rentals. He would do anything to stand watch, wide-eyed in amazement as it happened, just as he had for thousands of years and thousands of achievements. 

But as he imagined it, there was someone there with him, experiencing the launch by his side. Reminding him to drive on the right (wrong) side of the road and tempting him to stop in one of those classic American diners like you see in movies, where you can sit in a booth and drink milkshakes. 

Aziraphale wasn’t really into space stuff. But… this was more than just _space_ , it was going to be a huge moment. I mean, how could anyone be apathetic when a human will be literally standing on the literal moon?

He decided, there was no way he was going to let Aziraphale miss it either. Crowley threw the newspaper over his shoulder, and sped off to Soho.

And he found himself sitting there, quite unsure of how to ask him.


	2. Chapter 2

“So,” Aziraphale began, “How have you been?”

Crowley realized he had been silent for an awkwardly long amount of time. He quickly collected himself and choked out, “What’s your opinion on American pies?” 

Aziraphale hummed, “American… pies?

He went on, waving his hand through the air to paint the scene, “Sickenly sweet. Fruity and practically neon -- full of artificial colour and flavour.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly nice.”

“Oh, but it is,” he said, “I’m not describing them right. You would love ‘em, in a sort of horrible way.”

He conceded, “I’m sure if I ever had cause to head over there, I would give one a go.”

Crowley thought a moment, then said, “What about the museums they’ve got? Some pretty big ones, if I recall.”

“Do they?”

“Yup. Does that surprise you?”

He let out a breath, “My impression of the country was that they were not particularly… enamoured with accurate historical records.” 

“Yeah, but you gotta remember they want to be the best at everything, including the best museums. Best casinos, best films, best awful food, best… I mean, have you been keeping up with the news?” Crowley sipped his scotch nonchalantly.

“Of course,” he gestured towards his messy pile of newspapers sitting on his desk. A few articles of interest were in the process of being cut out and preserved away from distasteful advertising and completed crossword puzzles.

“So you know about…?”

“About what?”

_Oh, only the biggest event of the last century._ “What the Americans are up to.”

“Up to…?” his gaze unfocused as he parsed through his memories he had shelved away, lighting up as though he had spotted the book he was looking for, “Oh! Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it.”

“You think so?” Crowley had expected the convincing to be a much more arduous process than that. Aziraphale tended to go oddly silent any time anything vaguely related to the Space Race was mentioned, so seeing him grow in excitement was rather unusual. 

“Certainly,” he nodded, “I was incredibly moved by the account of the incident, and I look forward to what it means for the future. Of course, as you know, I can’t condone violence, but I think it’s rather about time--”

Crowley frowned, “Wait, violence? What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale furrowed his brows, “The recent events in the city of New York, of course,” he stood and began fussing over his newspaper collection, “I saved the article about it somewhere over here if you’d like to give it a read.”

“Oh, the Stonewall riots? No, no, I mean the moon mission.”

Aziraphale froze his movements and didn’t immediately say anything. Crowley began sinking into his seat the longer Aziraphale put off responding. 

Finally, he said, “Yes, I read about that too.”

“It’s starting in a few days.”

“Right.”

“M’thinking of taking a vacation. Popping across the pond to go see it off.”

The tension dissipated for the most part, and all at once Aziraphale’s shoulders seemed to relax, “Oh,” he turned around, not a trace of upset present on his face, “You should go! I can cover your temptations for a few days. That would be no problem at all. You don’t even need to ask--”

“That, er, wasn’t actually what I was going to say.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “Right.” 

“I was thinking…” Crowley mustered up all his courage before spitting out, “That you should come with me.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times, clutching his glass tightly. He shot the cobwebbed ceiling a glance before answering, “Thank you very much for the invitation, but I’m afraid I must decline.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he chuckled half-heartedly, “I’m sure, dear.”

“I know… I know it’s not really your thing, but there’s never going to be another first moon landing--”

“I know.”

“It’s not something you can just miss.”

“Well, I can’t stop everything to fly over to America. It is simply impossible.”

“Why?” questioned Crowley.

“Because…” he began fidgeting with his golden ring, “Because I have blessings to get done. My schedule is absolutely full-up.”

“You’d only be gone a few days. No one would notice the difference.”

“My side certainly would.”

“Bullshit.” 

Aziraphale huffed, “Excuse me?”

Crowley took a breath. There was something in him that was boiling up, being expressed as a fit of shouty anger that concealed what it really was about. “You know exactly how much attention they pay to us out in the field, same as I do. You _know_ they wouldn’t notice so long as you get your paperwork in order,” said Crowley, “So, why?”

“Perhaps that’s true,” Aziraphale straightened up, setting his glass down before clasping his hands safely behind his back. He continued quietly, “How about you? You’re asking me to put the weight of people’s immortal souls aside for what reason exactly?”

“Hey, I asked you first.”

“Well, now I’m asking you.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“You are the one asking me to make a change in my schedule, it is perfectly reasonable for me to inquire as to why.”

“I want you to,” he said before he could stop himself, then shrugged, “I just want you to come with me.”

Aziraphale snapped, “Have you considered that I don’t want to go with you?”

His hand flew to cover his mouth, but it was too late. Crowley’s whole body fell still and his gaze dropped to the dusty wooden floor. “Oh,” he said, “Right.”

As Aziraphale did the washing up, he thought himself into a tizzy about all he had just done. 

The night had started off with a polite enough knock. And then he had heard, “S’me.” 

He was surprised, though not disappointed, to hear Crowley’s voice from behind the door. The two of them hadn’t spoken for a good while, aside from the superficial communications needed to keep up reports to their respective sides. In fact, they hadn’t _properly_ spoken since the night in Soho, sitting in Crowley’s car. 

They had been due for a chat, really. No matter how much Aziraphale dreaded it. If it had to be done, it had to be done. 

However, from the very start of the conversation, it became clear that the topic was still too raw. Crowley hopped around it as though it were consecrated ground--

Aziraphale’s heart nearly stopped at the image that conjured. So quick had it hijacked his train of thought that one could almost suspect occult interference. 

He supposed a little demonic miracle _had_ done it, if not directly. He began to feel overwhelmed with… well, with whatever ineffable tempest of emotion he had felt upon the brief touch of hands as his suitcase of books was plucked from the rubble and passed to him. 

He shook himself out of the daze, realizing he had been scrubbing the same plate for nearly five minutes. He flicked it under the tap one last time before setting the sparkling thing aside. What had happened after Crowley was invited in?

They settled down. Aziraphale felt the cold, smokey drink sliding down his throat, and began to feel a bit better. Although his attention refocused on something more pressing: whatever seedy plan or favor Crowley had up his sleeve. 

He sipped demurely at his drink, awaiting the serpentine rigamarole of tempting him to do something he was supposed to be opposed to. He couldn’t say he wasn’t frightened of what would come out of the demon’s mouth. After all, he could have wanted _anything._

Just a couple of years earlier, Aziraphale thought he knew where the boundaries for their arrangement ended. There was a clear line that he promised himself he would never cross. One that ensured that, at the end of time, no matter what, he would never be hailed as a cause for Crowley’s destruction. 

But then he had crossed it. 

And sitting in his back room, Crowley had acted the same as he had seconds before he passed him the note that made his stomach drop all the way down to the gates of Hell. The demon’s face went serious and silent in contemplation, hiding more than usual behind dark glasses and a collected facade. This behavior had put Aziraphale on edge a century earlier, and it put him on edge then too. 

If trusting that Crowley wouldn’t dump that flask on himself the first chance he got wasn’t the final line he would cross, what would it be? Of course he had to reach for the moon.

_“I want you to… I just want you to come with me.”_

The softness of Crowley’s explanation had taken him by surprise. It was as maddeningly off-handed as the _“Lift home?”_ in 1941. As though he weren’t toying with… As though he hadn’t made him feel… That was his breaking point.

He had effectively thrown Crowley out after that. Mentioning _‘how busy he was, and oh look at the time, my dear, when did it get so late’_ was as good as any other form of demon repellent. 

Of course Aziraphale noticed the way Crowley wilted, and of course it broke his heart, but he should have known that he was asking the impossible. To act as though they were friends, therein lay danger. 

One of the many unspoken rules of the Arrangement was that they needed to have reasons to meet. Without sensible reasons, their relationship would drift into treacherous territory. No, see, they simply met out of practicality, thank you very much. Working on Earth for so long, you do better by making a few concessions to the other side and receiving a few in return. Things still got done the way Heaven wanted, there was a solid proof of that! 

Nevertheless this, along with many of the other unspoken rules, had unavoidably begun to erode. It had never entirely gone away, but their justifications certainly became more flimsy as the years went on. 

Maybe Crowley intended to discard the rule entirely. Maybe he intended to put the ineffable into words, to pin it down and trap it until there was no chance that either of them could deny it any longer. 

Aziraphale wouldn’t be having any of that. The only way the Arrangement made any sense was if it had this strong backbone of Rules keeping them sane and safe. Without the Rules, what were they but two beings adrift in a hostile universe, orbiting one another?

The last of his dishes washed, he miracled his hands dry. The shop fell into a horrid silence without the tap on and without Crowley’s absent-minded chattering. He almost wished he could call him back, but knew it was impossible.

Crowley, meanwhile, was speeding around the block. 

“Bless it,” he slammed his hand down on the wheel, “ _Bless it!_ ” They’d been on thin ice and he’d just done a cannonball right through it. “Stupid. Why the hell did you say that?” 

Too fast -- of course! Too bloody fast. Crowley couldn’t help but fly miles ahead of where Aziraphale was comfortable. 

He racked his brain as he swerved to avoid a pedestrian. Trying to figure out what had changed, why Aziraphale was pushing away so much. Sure he always pushed back on Crowley's ideas, but they had gotten to a point where the facade disagreements were much less than half-hearted. 

_I don’t want to go with you._ What the hell had that meant? He was fluent in Aziraphale double-speak, but snapping like that was nearly unprecedented. Something he hadn’t seen in millennia. Not since the angel still held deep suspicion of him. Even then, it was a rare sight between his polite small talk. 

Maybe he genuinely didn’t want to. That was always a possibility. But… if that were the case, why not imply that in the first place? Why lie about how busy he was? After all, he’s not shy about disliking some of Crowley’s interests. Types of music that came and went, though never without the angel scolding Crowley to ‘turn that racket off.’ Scoffing at his fashion choices and suchlike.

No, it wasn’t that. It had to mean something else. He didn’t know what exactly, but knew it had to. That was the only way it made sense. 

Burning in his throat were a thousand _why’s_ , begging to be released. As his flat came into view, he couldn’t handle it any longer. 

He slammed on the brakes. Cranked the wheel sharply. U-turned the way back to Soho.

Before Aziraphale could shout anything to the person who knocked at his bookshop door, Crowley had come inside, rambling, “Okay, okay, please explain this to me.”

“Crowley--”

“Why?”

“What?”

“I’m not asking for anything else, just an explanation. Just -- why? What happened?” Crowley nearly shouted, “I feel as though all my memories of Sputnik are false and--”

He noticed with an incredible amount of sadness how Aziraphale winced slightly at the name. 

“Did I just… dream it?” 

He didn’t dare explain what he meant by _it_ , but he didn’t need to. 

“No,” Aziraphale said softly, glancing down to his hands, “You didn’t dream it. Even so, I’m afraid I cannot accompany you,” the look of hurt on Crowley’s face forced him to admit, “I do -- I do wish I could. But I can’t.” 

_“Why not?”_

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” his voice broke and his hands fluttered together in a tense fidget. If he didn’t get his emotion out this way, it seemed he might have just discorporated. Crowley observed every movement carefully, and slowly began to speak. Sauntering back into their comfortable, thousands-of-years-old roles. He realized what Aziraphale needed.

“You can’t,” Crowley nodded, “You can’t, but… well, you didn’t hear this from me, but there’s a big, old, demonic plot involving a few well-timed accidents--”

“No there’s not,” said Aziraphale.

“Well--” he sputtered, “No… but there _could_ be. Can’t hurt to investigate, can it?” Crowley stepped closer, putting on a show of flashy intimidation, “I mean, have you heard what goes on whenever I’m around?”

The hook had caught him, and he tried to hold back a smile as he asked, “What goes on, dear?”

“Spanish Inquisition. Started up when I popped over to Spain. French Revolution got a bit bloodier the second I set foot in Paris.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh at that total rubbish.

“It’s true, angel. It’s the hellish influence -- exudes from me like… like Lord Henry,” he would admit he was hitting below the belt, but invoking Wilde never failed to move Aziraphale, “Would be a shame if there weren’t a Basil Hallward to balance out my badness.”

“That’s… well--”

“I mean, imagine what Heaven would say if _they_ knew that _you_ knew that I’d be out there doing my demonic stuff without a counterbalance.”

Aziraphale thought about it for a moment, “I don’t think that would be a very good excuse in the grand scheme of things. The States are generally considered to be a lost cause Up There.”

Crowley wavered, “Wait, really?”

“God’s truth.”

“Our lot considers it a lost cause on our end.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped, “Do they?”

“Do you know how bloody _religious_ they are over there? They’re filled up to their necks in megachurches, fundamentalists, televangelists and the like.”

“They don’t exactly preach messages of love!”

“No, but they talk more about Jesus than anyone else in the world. I thought that was what was important to your guys.”

“It takes more than saying a few of the correct words to be blessed. It’s about actions, fundamental belief, faith, and good Lord don’t give me that look,” Aziraphale huffed. 

Crowley, smiling perhaps more than was necessary, quickly added, “I’m not poking fun, angel. It just never stops surprising me -- the overlap, you know? All this fuss about sides and yet…” 

“And yet…” Aziraphale agreed. 

“You know what? It’s better that way,” he decided, “All the more reason to pop by. Check and see if you should be putting any resources into holy-ing up the place.”

“Oh, Crowley, I have no desire to move to America--”

“Ah. You can come out of the trip and report that it’s _still_ a lost cause, yeah? No need to spend any more time there than you want to.”

Aziraphale sighed. 

“American pies,” Crowley added as a cherry on top, “Think about it.”

“I will.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dear God, how much he thought about it after Crowley left once more. 

The night after Sputnik’s launch had felt like a dream to Aziraphale as well. If he spent any significant amount of time sleeping, he would quickly dismiss the memories. But, he didn’t sleep, so he couldn’t do that. No, he knew his memories were accurate.

When Aziraphale had made his periodic visit to Heaven in 1957, he couldn’t help but exude a bit more chipper energy than usual. Angels are, of course, sensitive to emotions such as these, and took notice immediately of Aziraphale’s new attitude. 

He approached what could charitably be called Gabriel’s office. Though Heaven’s idea of an office space included no such thing as privacy; everyone could see and hear what their fellow angels were doing at nearly all times. 

“I’m here to deliver some documents,” Aziraphale said, a twinkle in his voice, “My miracle reports, some field observations, and the like.”

“Wonderful,” Gabriel accepted the little bundle of celestial paperwork, but didn’t even glance at it, “I must ask, why are you in such a good mood today? It’s infectious.”

The unexpected question threw Aziraphale off-kilter. He had practiced answering for any irregularities in his work and rehearsed what he would say if Crowley were mentioned, but he hadn’t anticipated being interrogated on his manner.

No, _inquired about_ his manner, he corrected himself. He shouldn’t overreact like that. It was hardly an interrogation. Gabriel awaited an answer patiently while Aziraphale swallowed down his mild panic.

“Oh, I suppose…” his hands released from their guarded position behind his back as he opened up to his superior, “I suppose I’m particularly happy about humanity’s achievements as of late.”

The archangel smiled indulgently, “What have they done recently, Aziraphale?”

“Well… they launched a piece of machinery way up into the sky and into orbit,” he said, more glee sliding off him and into the air as he recounted the event, “They called it Sputnik, which means ‘traveling companion.’ Isn’t that a delightful name? Oh, I find it simply remarkable what they can do when they set their minds to something…” 

But then the feeling slipped through his fingers. It seemed in that moment, every sound, conversation, and footstep that could have been heard a second earlier was put on pause. The air became still and fragile, as though one wrong move would shatter everything.

Of course, Heaven was never particularly noisy, but the difference between approval and disapproval was _palpable_ if you were attuned to it. He tried to take a breath but found he couldn’t do it properly; the silence had settled heavily into Aziraphale’s chest.

Gabriel’s voice sent a chill through him, “You found it remarkable?”

“Erm… that’s what I said.”

“Tell me,” Gabriel’s hands came to rest in front of him on the desk, “Was the Tower of Babel also remarkable?” 

His heart sank, “N-no--”

“How about the golden calf? Was it delightful?”

“Of course not--” 

“But I’m sure that you cheered on Adam and Eve as they took a bite of the forbidden fruit.”

“No, no I didn’t--”

“Why not? Each of these are remarkable achievements in humanity’s history.”

“Because…” he frantically tried to come up with something acceptable to say, something that would get him out of there. Though his mind couldn’t settle on anything at all, “Because…” 

“I’m sure you remember how the Lord responded to these events.”

Quickly, words tumbled out of his mouth, “They--they were punished--” 

Gabriel smiled again (well, it might have been more accurate to say he bared his teeth), “That’s right, Aziraphale. They were punished. Punished for their distasteful, vulgar, flagrant transgressions against God.”

His scold echoed out across the space. There was no doubt that everyone heard. Aziraphale’s face turned a hot, bright red, no matter how much he tried to will the blush away. 

“If you’re so dim as to _forget_ something like that,” the archangel reached for the phone on his desk as his words grew more harsh, “then I’m sure we can arrange for weekly reminders of the heavenly agenda to be sent down. Sandalphon should be willing to get it done, though he probably won’t be happy about it.”

Aziraphale was greatly regretting removing his hands from the safety of being clasped behind his back. Without any conscious decision, they had begun gesticulating in a pathetic, pleading manner, “I-- I don’t see how that’s necessary.”

He began to dial, “I don’t see why it should be necessary either. But, apparently, we need to draw from our very busy schedules to help you keep up.”

Aziraphale looked down shamefully, his hands kept close to his chest, fidgeting restlessly. He could _feel_ the eyes boring into him from all angles. It made him sick.

He heard the click of the phone being placed back into its receiver. And then Gabriel said, “Are you going to stop being such a fucking space cadet and think a little before you speak?”

“Yes. Yes-- I’ll try.”

“Will you try or will you do it?”

“No, erm, I’ll do it.”

“Good!” Gabriel’s demeanor switched on a dime, back to being placidly pleased, “Keep up your work, Aziraphale. I’ll see you later.”

He dizzied as the mild patter of angelic work started up again. It was as though Mount Vesuvius had spent that whole week smoking and bubbling over Pompeii only for it to return to being a seemingly ordinary mountain without any destruction at all. Nothing had happened in the end, so why did he feel so out of sorts?

When he had returned to Earth, he found his bookshop had changed. It was more cluttered than he remembered. Cramped and chaotic. There were certainly more shelves than before, though even the old ones were rearranged to be more labyrinthine. He imagined one could get completely lost amongst the books, and perhaps never be found. 

Another thing he noticed was that any sign of Crowley’s most recent visit had vanished, the unwashed glasses were now sparkling clean and tucked away in their proper place.

He retreated into the tightly packed shelves, organizing his book collection in a way that made the most sense with the new arrangement (though it was hardly a method that made sense to any aspiring customer).

As he placed one of his ornate bibles delicately on a shelf, the Tower of Babel came to mind. Just when humans thought they might have been able to achieve the impossible, God drove a wedge between them. She scattered humanity across the globe, scattered their tongues until they no longer believed they had anything in common. 

The message was clear: be careful about your ambitions. Nip them in the bud yourself or else risk having them chopped down in a most unpleasant way. 

The impossible was still impossible, Aziraphale decided then. To think otherwise was absolutely ridiculous.

That visit had drawn a close to their closeness. He had been reminded what it meant to be an angel, and holding fond feelings for a demon was not a part of that. The shame and humiliation of heaven’s scolding still created a knot in his stomach just as he thought about it. 

Though, typically, he would try to think of anything else as soon as possible just to get rid of the feeling. At this moment, with plenty of scotch in his blood, he dug into the feeling and remembered farther back. Underneath all the unpleasantness was… joy. After all, the post-war time had been some of Aziraphale’s favorites in all his six thousand years. It was during those years he discovered the coziness inherent in a lovely tartan bow tie and the joy in getting a manicure. He even considered purchasing a television, which was all the rage at the time, though it took almost a whole decade’s consideration before he went for it. 

Not only that, but the rebuilding of London made the city so much stronger. It rose out of the ashes of the Blitz like a phoenix, more glorious in its resurrection than it ever had been before. Aziraphale’s heart soared whenever he proudly called himself a Londoner.

After he very narrowly avoided getting shot (in a church of all places), Crowley and he grew closer than they ever had been. Their argument was tossed aside as they worked on the greater good of ridding the city of every murdering, blackmailing, Nazi spy that dared to set foot there. After V-day, well, they had already gotten very much in the habit of spending time together. 

They would have drinks, dinner, switch off between tempting and blessing. Crowley brought life and new trends into his stuffy shop, trying (unsuccessfully) to get him into bebop, and trying (successfully) to get him into the Space Race. When he arrived at the shop one night with news on the outer space ambitions of humanity and the Bentley full of vodka, Aziraphale welcomed him warmly inside. 

“To humans, and all their flights of fancy!” Aziraphale had said. He smiled watching Crowley cackle as though the pun were the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“I’ll drink to that!” he responded like it was their first toast instead of their dozenth. 

They clinked bottles, long having gotten sick of refilling their glasses over and over again, and drank until the bottle neck popped away from their lips. 

“To Sup-Spud-Sput,” said Crowley after a hiccup.

“We already toasted to Sput-nik,” Aziraphale mumbled, “About… five bottles ago.”

“Little robot deserves it though, yeah?” 

“I can’t argue with that,” he said, raising his bottle again, “To that little robot far up in the sky!”

“Hell yeah.”

They leaned closer to each other to clink, missing the first few times they tried. Laughing all the way.

Aziraphale sighed as he sat back in his chair, slurring, “Oh I can’t believe they actually did it. They did it. Truly they… did it.”

“Amazing, right?” said Crowley, “Jus’ imagine all the effort that went into this little piece of metal and wires being shot way up there. All the human colla-- collabrr-- working together. All the money spent and jusss… Why? Jus’ because they want to know a bit more about the world,” his head swung back heavily as he lost the ability to hold it up, “S’amazing.”

Aziraphale was completely taken by the way Crowley lost himself to his fascination when he was drunk. He told stories about the stars as though they were old friends, rambled on and on about all the wonderfully useful things the human mind thought up, and made Aziraphale more nostalgic than anything else. 

“Yes, s’amazing,” Aziraphale said, his eyes falling shut, “What do you think it sees right now?”

“Lotssa blue, if it looks down. But up is where the real view is at: lotssa stars, and I mean _lotssa_ stars up there,” he spoke quieter after a moment, “It’s so… safe. Not quite in heaven. Tethered to Earth, but kept at arm's length from all the shit on terra firma.”

“S’a nice middle ground,” Aziraphale hummed, “Do you think it’ll get lonely?”

“Can’t. The stars are there with it, and y’never get sick of hanging out with ‘em,” he shook his head, “And even though it’s gonna burn up one day -- y’know, falling through the atmosphere -- stars make it feel like… everything’s alright. Like it’s all worth it, just for the view.”

Aziraphale reflected on that, stargazing through Crowley’s eyes. He’d never been one to look up much; he spent much more of his time hunched over books, squinting down through reading glasses he didn’t technically need. 

But at that moment, he felt at one with Ptolemy and Galileo and Copernicus and all the other humans who were filled with wonder at the nightly patterns that filled the sky. Everyone who had discovered the orderliness and made up stories to explain it, guided ships with them, and now who had felt so curious that they wanted to shoot themselves way up there. 

God knows how long they spent in silence. It almost felt like the bookshop lost its atmosphere, leaving no way for sound to travel. As though they were floating around the Earth alongside Sputnik. In the safe middle ground away from the prying eyes of Upstairs or Downstairs. 

The spell was broken when Crowley spoke, “Ah, suppose it’s time to… head home.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times to settle himself back into the bookshop. “You can stay. F’you like.”

“Nahh, gotta… water some plants,” Crowley stood shakily, “Was fun though.”

“It was,” Aziraphale looked up at him with wide eyes filled with as much colour and life as the Earth itself, “But, my dear boy, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Forgetting what…?”

Aziraphale sighed, picking himself up to take the bottle that Crowley still clung to, “You don’t think I’m going to let you drive home in that state, do you?” 

“Should sober up, shouldn’t I?” 

“Yes, you should.” 

Crowley swayed a bit, catching himself before he fell, “Too bad drunk driving is exactly what a demon would do.”

“Anthony J Crowley,” he scolded, “You could get discorp-- discorpr-- you could get hurt.”

“Yup.”

“So, sober up.”

“Nope,” he swung a leg around to head back towards the door, but overshot it. His spine reverted to its natural state and collapsed like rope. Aziraphale grabbed firmly to his arm keeping him just barely upright. 

“You idiot. If I have to sober you up myself, I will.”

There was something so serious in his voice with just a hint of a frayed desperate edge that he would have been sure to conceal had he been sober. That gave Crowley pause.

“Yeah, course” he murmured, straightening himself up, “I was kidding. I know it’s a stupid thing to do.” 

He let out a breath, his grip on Crowley’s arm loosening, “Don’t be so reckless. Please.”

Without further ado, they both began the process of sobering themselves up. The touch on his arm lingered a moment after the last drop of alcohol had evaporated from their bloodstreams, and it was as if they were still intoxicated. 

They were on the verge of something wonderful. Between them was a pregnant pause as big as the full moon above, on an autumn night where anything seemed possible. Each of their hearts fluttered in time with each other, from the closeness they had developed over the last decade. For just that single moment, there were no more celestial politics, no more commandments nor sides. Only Sputnik. 

And, if there was a man-made satellite waltzing around with the stars, why couldn’t an angel and an ex-angel… dine at the Ritz together? 

“Goodnight, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly, “Drive safely.”

“Goodnight, angel.”

Aziraphale glanced over to the newspapers again, grounding himself back in the present moment. Sat on the top of the pile were headlines proclaiming the start of a bold new era. The final stretch in a race between countries to be the first to step on the moon. It was hard for him to ignore the spark of hope he felt upon reading it. Nothing horrible had come to those first few men who tried to reach the heavens, certainly nothing as drastic as what happened to the builders of the Tower of Babel. Perhaps policy has changed.

Certainly, Heaven couldn’t object to a small departure to a place in such desperate need of miraculous blessings. It couldn’t hurt to _try_. Climb every mountain, ford every stream; that was Heaven’s new unofficial motto since that bloody film* had been released. What did that mean besides attempting things not, as they said, because they were easy, but because they were hard? 

*(Aziraphale had actually found The Sound of Music rather enjoyable -- for the first few times it was screened in Heaven. After the fifteenth time, however, his feelings turned like sour milk. But… for some ineffable reason, the Almighty enjoyed it, so it continued to play). 

He would be careful -- of course. The impossible was still impossible, but perhaps the trip was not as impossible as he had originally thought it was. With the reasoning all set in place and Crowley’s enthusiasm in his memory, his mind settled on a resounding _Why The Hell Not?_ He called Crowley up, and told him that they were going to watch the spaceship take off. 

Only, he had to remind him that it was a mission of thwarting. Absolutely, purely, completely a business trip and nothing else. Though Crowley could hear the smile in his voice as he explained this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's staying safe <3


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale found an unpleasant surprise on the day their flight was scheduled. It was early in the morning, and yet some sod had decided to create a cacophony outside his shop with the horn of their car. Aziraphale lifted a curtain to give the driver the same withering glare he gave particularly persistent customers. Only -- he saw Crowley’s sleek car waiting for him, honking despite the clear annoyance of pedestrians around. 

He tutted, grabbing his luggage, and headed to the car as quickly as he could. Shielding his face to try and prevent the neighbors from forever associating him with a Monday morning racket. 

He loaded his tartan case in the boot next to another suitcase and let himself into the passenger side of the car. Immediately, the car took off. Aziraphale choked down a cry of shock and set about scolding, “You didn’t have to go beeping like that. You could have just come inside to get me.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to take such a long time dallying about,” Crowley said, teeming with restless energy, “We’re already late.”

Aziraphale checked his pocket watch, “Our flight takes off in… four hours. I’m not sure how much earlier we could have left.” 

“I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer the plane didn’t leave without us on board.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t do that,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley scoffed softly and the drive continued along, with central London left far behind them. A soft patter of rain tapped on the windshield and the wipers miraculously always seemed to sync with the same tempo as whatever music came out of the car’s speakers. 

They arrived at London Heathrow, unpacked themselves from the Bentley. With a snap, the car doors shut and locked, and the Bentley made its own way home. 

“Here we are,” Crowley said. Aziraphale nodded haltingly. His boldness had begun to fizzle out from the rain coming down on them. Planning a trip is well enough, but it doesn’t seem real until you take the first step. Even packing seemed like it was a fantasy rather than actual preparation. 

Just before his resolve was smashed by a wrecking ball of worry, Crowley picked up the tartan case as well as his own and entered the nearest door. The angel followed close behind. 

Neither of them were really prepared for the amount of activity they would find past the doors. The huge international hub reeled them in with confusing signs pointing this way and that. There were crowds of business people bustling around in their well-pressed suits, air stewardesses in uniform, and tourist families who all seemed like they knew exactly where to go and what to do. Everywhere you could look, there were people hurrying about, so much that it nearly overwhelmed the senses. The two of them looked around the place, totally lost. Aziraphale instinctively reached out and grabbed Crowley on the sleeve as he glanced around for a sign of where to go. Or maybe even to tell him that this whole thing was a mistake and that he wanted to turn back. 

Luckily a kindly young stewardess* tapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. She was dressed head to toe in red, and was wearing perhaps more makeup than what was required for a service job. She greeted them in an intentionally softened cockney accent, “Are you lost, gentlemen?”

*(Marjorie Potts, later known as Madame Tracy, held down many odd jobs throughout her life, including a short fling as an air stewardess. She always felt incredibly posh dressing up and soaring above the clouds, but ultimately she would quit after she got to do less sightseeing than she was promised and it wreaked havoc on her sleep schedule.)

Crowley eyed her suspiciously, and was about to rebuff her attempts to help, when Aziraphale welcomed her, “Oh, yes! I’m afraid neither of us have the first clue of where to go.”

“First time flying?”

“No,” Crowley said quickly, “First time on a plane, though.” 

Aziraphale nudged him, “What he means to say is yes. And we would very much appreciate your help.” 

“You need to go over there,” she pointed, “The lady at that desk will take your suitcases to the plane. And then get your passports and tickets ready--”

Aziraphale shot a worried look over to Crowley, who pulled two immaculately maintained tickets and passport books out of his pocket. Such beautiful and dignified things they were -- navy blue with gold embossing on the front, proclaiming them both to be citizens of Great Britain. 

To be perfectly honest, Crowley had been incredibly nervous at this point as well. He even had a few thoughts of calling the whole thing off until he saw the fond thank you in Aziraphale’s eyes as he held up the passports.

The moment that passed between them didn’t escape the stewardess’ notice, as she commented, “What would you do without him, eh?” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, his eyes not shifting from Crowley.

The woman went on, “Follow the signs to your gate, which should be listed on your tickets there, and keep an ear out for any announcements. Flying with BEA today?”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked, only just managing to blink himself out of the spell he’d been put under.

“Which airline, love? I’m with BEA.”

“Pan Am,” Crowley said.

“Ah, look for the ones in a lovely blue kit, they’ll lead the way. Have a good flight, lads.” 

“Thank you ever so much,” Aziraphale said as he blessed her to have a most wonderful day, “Truly, thank you.”

Crowley grabbed his arm, “Let’s get going, angel.”

The woman shot them a wink, for she was fully endeared by the odd couple. 

The whirlwind of a trip through the airport seemed to go by in an instant until they were sat at the gate with a lot of time on their hands. Aziraphale pulled a pack of cards out of his pocket and made them disappear far too obviously up his sleeve. Until he did it one too many times and they all came tumbling out. 

A pair of children giggled as they watched the god-awful magic act and Crowley’s exaggerated eye rolls. They were bored out of their minds, colouring books clearly not doing enough to keep them entertained while their parents took a nap on the nearby chairs. 

Aziraphale liked children, in an abstract sense at least, so he sent them a pleasant smile. His tune changed when the two sisters immediately began making fun of him. At that point, he remembered that all children are rather demonic after they get old enough to properly cry. 

Crowley agreed with him on this. Cute as they were, cherubic newborns were an absolute bore until they got old enough to cause some trouble. 

He took the deck of cards from Aziraphale and began shuffling them as he headed over to the sisters. The two of them, and Aziraphale, looked frightened at his serious strut over, until he crouched down and began to deal the cards with quick, blurred hands. 

“Place down your bets,” he said, “know how to play Switch?” 

“What are _you_ betting?” One of the girls asked.

“What am I betting? Hah,” he pointed over to a nearby vendor who was selling bars of chocolate larger than their heads, “How’s that?” 

Their eyes widened, and they exchanged a glance. The kids turned out their pockets, throwing out a few little knick-knacks and toys and things as their own bet. Crowley nodded and pointed to the older of the sisters to start the first turn. 

Aziraphale smiled as he watched the cards placed down one after another between the trio. He was unfamiliar with the frantic game but it seemed like good fun the way the children were beaming. Crowley acted like he was James Bond in a high stakes blackjack game, deadly serious as he tried matching either the suit or the number on the cards. 

Time seemed to pass as fast as they threw cards down, each trying to be the first to discard their whole hand. With a few demonic nudges, the younger sister came out victorious and won the candy just as the gate opened up. 

Aziraphale honestly tried as hard as he could to suppress the smile threatening to burst its way to the surface when Crowley returned. They began to walk silently over to the jetway.

Suddenly, Aziraphale leaned over to whisper, “That was rather--”

“Oh, shut it,” Crowley said quickly, “I’m instilling hubris. Perfectly demonic, that.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” he hummed, holding out a hand to let Crowley step onto the plane first. The hesitation didn’t escape his notice, and he added, “It’s quite alright,” reasoning that the demon might be slightly afraid to let someone else take the wheel in any vehicle he rode, doubly so when it’s soaring through the sky. That seemed to put him slightly more at ease. They finally went to go find their seats.

Advertised as the height of luxury, well the flight wasn’t all that. It’s hard to be comfortable when one is crammed with a few dozen strangers for hours on end. Aziraphale did spend his time reading and drinking far past the point when a flight attendant would usually cut someone off, but for some reason they never noticed. Crowley, meanwhile, spent the flight a couple rows away, as was their custom on public transport. No one noticed how he curled up in a position that was entirely contortionistic, folding his stilt-like legs onto the cramped seat. Snoring for the whole nine hours of the trip.

The flight landed smoothly down in Orlando, Florida. They stepped off the jetway into this new country, temporarily freed from the burden of being watched. Knowing that no one would ever see them here, neither one bothered to double-check over their shoulders. 

The sun shone down on them while they made their way to the airport at which point they split up. Aziraphale to get the luggage, and Crowley to find the car rental. Aziraphale waited politely by the cases once they were found and took a deep breath of the sweltering American airport: sunscreen, fast food, and burnt coffee. Around him rushed happy tourists as they made their egress towards whatever could be found in Florida. He didn’t have a clue, but they certainly seemed enthusiastic. 

Crowley arrived at the rendezvous point twirling a set of keys around his finger. They walked together out to the car park lined with huge American machines. As soon as Aziraphale set eyes on the pristine black luxury car in the corner of the lot, he rolled his eyes, “Good Lord.” 

A wide smile slithered across Crowley’s face. He hopped behind the driver’s seat and got himself acquainted with the newer (and flipped) controls. The Cadillac wasn’t nearly as stubborn as the old Bentley, and thus the car started before Crowley even twisted the keys. Aziraphale nervously buckled his seatbelt while the impatient engine revved. 

He pulled out of the lot and the car lurched at top-speed into the street. Crowley was immediately confronted with a screamed, “Wrong side of the road!” from his passenger. He swerved into the correct lane, nearly colliding with three pedestrians and four cars just a hundred yards from where they had picked up the car. 

“You’re going to give me a heart attack!” Aziraphale said, grabbing for the dashboard.

“I’m sorry, the Cadillac’s just eager to go. Must get bored sitting around there,” he reached for the radio, “Damn neglectful if you ask me.” 

Before Aziraphale could respond, some chap on the radio began chatting on and on about the news that was to take place the next day. 

_“As Florida’s representative in Washington, I could not be more proud to have the Apollo 11 mission take off from my home state. God bless the United States of America. This has been a message from Senator Dowling--”_

Crowley switched it over to the music channel before the grating American-accented voice could say any more. David Bowie became the soundtrack for their drive through the wide streets. Low buildings on either side, so unlike the tall and tightly clustered structures found in their home city. And everything so new and so flimsy -- not a brick in sight. The classic London fog was replaced with a clear sky and palm trees silhouetted exotically against an orange sunset. 

They found a suitable hotel and booked a room. Crowley nearly choked as Aziraphale asked for one room. After all, he had made sure to purchase plane seats with a good distance between them, and they had done many of the steps of the trip separately. Aziraphale didn’t seem to take in his shock. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I put it under your name,” Aziraphale said, “I would prefer if an alias of mine were not able to be found in the records here. You know how heaven can get.” 

“Oh,” said Crowley, “Oh -- of course. No problem.” 

“I would like to keep some plausible deniability if I can.”

“No, no. Makes total sense.” 

“And it’s not as though I plan to get any sleeping done, so the bed is all yours to do with as you please.” 

“Ngh.” All Crowley could do was pick up the luggage and begin walking up to the room slowly. He was, however, incredibly conscious of the shrinking space between the two of them. Soon they would be confined to a small room, together and alone, for an entire night. What the hell was that going to be like?

They entered the room, which just happened to be number six hundred and sixty-six. It was rather unassuming, containing simply a double bed, two bedside tables, and a boxy-looking chair. Everything was rendered in muted, neutral colours. It was nice, in a sort of boring way. The soundtrack for their entrance was an orchestra of cricket chirps from just outside the window. 

Aziraphale kept a close eye on Crowley, who paced restlessly around the room examining it for any faults. One finger slid along the window sill to check how much dust was left, and while it didn’t look like he found any, he still rubbed his fingers as though he had. He then flopped on the bed as if to test its bounciness. 

“Is it to your satisfaction?” Aziraphale asked as he began to unpack his case into the closet. 

“Bed’s a bit stiff,” he said.

“Oh, we can change rooms--”

“Nuh! It’s fine. Terrific.” 

Aziraphale turned around to glance at him. It seemed that if Crowley weren’t lying down, he would be bouncing off the walls. He hadn’t properly rested the entire trip, and he wasn’t going to start then. 

His mind was racing as fast as ever, pondering the theological implications of sharing a room with an angel. It was made weirder when Aziraphale refused to acknowledge how weird it was. 

“Shall I unpack your luggage?”

“No--!” Crowley said quickly, “No, I’ll do it later.”

“If you say so,” Aziraphale sank into the uncomfortable chair, just as the room sank into an uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t like the heavenly silence Aziraphale was well-acquainted with. It was a screaming void of sound. A thousand unsaid arguments taking place with every small shift of sheets moving. 

Again, they found themselves on a precipice. The next day the world would change irreparably. While that night they were still confined in the old world with all its rigid rules, who knew what tomorrow would bring?

Crowley didn’t end up sleeping for more than a few hours. Part of the problem was his anticipation for the early morning event, but Aziraphale’s presence didn’t help matters. At some point in the night, the angel had found a free bible in the drawer of the bedside table, and spent the rest of the night muttering to himself about how awful it was. 

Not only was it cheaply made with the glue doing nothing to keep the book attached to the spine, he complained, it was also well-worn: dog-ears and tears on many of the tissue-thin pages. But, worst of all, it was a _horrid_ translation. Not like those misprinted bibles that got a chuckle out of him, the free hotel bible was just downright unpoetic. 

Because why bother reading something complicated and beautiful, where the images conjured by the words haunt you for days after you first read them? Just throw down something that catches the gist of it and call it a day. It was the most American thing he’s ever seen.

Crowley leapt out of bed at seven-thirty on the dot. He was not going to miss the flight, not in a million years. He scrambled to get Aziraphale to his feet fast enough to make him dizzy. Before Aziraphale could indulge in the hotel’s breakfast, he was tugged into the Cadillac which sped off towards the beach. 

Even if Crowley hadn’t checked a map (which he did, several times), one would be able to tell where the launch was happening. There was a steady, eastward flow of cars which Crowley weaved through at top speed. Aziraphale tried to think of anything to make Crowley’s foot ease off the gas pedal. 

“There’s a store,” Aziraphale pointed out the window, “A supermarket!”

He drove right past it.

“And look, another one.” 

Crowley kept his eyes on the road, “No time. I can’t believe we left it so late already. You and your bloody hair. I can’t even tell it’s any different than before.”

“Oh, it was awful,” he crouched down to peer at himself in one of the side mirrors, “Still is. I really need to pay a visit to my barber.”

“If we had left a second later, it would be sailing away without us, and this whole trip would have been for nothing.”

Aziraphale put a pause on fussing over his curls, “Remind me again when it’s taking off?”

“Nine thirty.”

“And how long will it be before we reach our destination?” 

“Half an hour.”

Aziraphale opened up his pocket watch and frowned, “Crowley,” he sighed, “It’s not even seven-thirty. Pull over this instant.”

He groaned, but relented, parking the car in the lot of some supermarket. He waited with the radio and the Cadillac as Aziraphale rushed inside to pick out a few snacks. 

Crowley fiddled around with the dashboard, his glasses, and eventually settling on snapping his fingers to shift the rearview mirror down. He began to mess with his own hair which he’d been letting grow out the past few years. Frowning at his reflection, he was suddenly hit with a strong urge to grow a mustache.

He nearly leaped out of his seat when someone rapped at the window. Shoving his glasses all the way up his nose, he snapped his head towards the unfamiliar figure who was intruding in his space, waving cheerily at Crowley. At this point, he realized they weren’t a person at all. Beady eyes and slightly iridescent feathers sticking sporadically out of whatever skin was exposed made it look like this being was inhabiting a body that was as if a magpie were re-shaped into a person.

The window was tentative to roll down. As soon as it did, the smell of old, well-handled coins wafted in through the gap. 

“Crowley, right? Big fan of your early work.” They stuck a grimy hand through the window, “Mammon, demon of--”

“Greed,” he said, shaking their hand, “You did -- er, Crassus’ fire brigade.”

“The very same! Ah, how do you stay out here for any amount of time? Someone just asked me to donate to a charity, can you believe that? Anyway, I tempted them to pocket some of the donations, so it wasn’t an entire waste of time.”

“That sounds great. Very evil of you,” Crowley peered over their shoulder to see that Aziraphale was marching proudly out of the shop. Terrific.

Mammon was luckily far too focused on Crowley, “I’m glad they sent the Earth expert over to help me because I’ve got a hell of a job to do--”

“Yup. Course.” He tapped his wheel impatiently, trying to think hard enough that Aziraphale would turn around. Despite how loud Crowley’s thoughts were, drowning out everything else going on, the angel stubbornly continued his trek across the car park. 

He shot the demon a big smile, “Nice to chat, gotta go. Ciao!” 

“Wait, what about the plan?”

“It’s all cool. Don’t even worry about it,” he said as he rolled up his window and reversed out of the spot. The befuddled demon was left standing in the empty space as the Cadillac sped away. Crowley quickly screeched around the lines of cars, halting next to the angel. With a snap, the passenger side door was open and the shopping was tucked away neatly in the backseat. Aziraphale glanced down at his suddenly empty arms, then at the car that had appeared unexpectedly next to him.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and climbed inside, “That was quite unnecessary. Once again, we are not going to be late--” his words were cut off by a loud revving of the car’s engine as Crowley got away from the scene as fast as the Cadillac could manage. Aziraphale buckled himself in with a speed nearly unprecedented. 

So, they weren’t the only celestial beings within a thousand miles, Crowley realized. They weren’t even the only celestial beings within a single mile. On his victory lap, the racetrack suddenly turned into a tightrope. 

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale said, noticing the way Crowley clenched his jaw. 

“Uhh,” he said, keeping his eyes glued to the windshield, “Yeah. Just want to get there on time, is all.” 

Aziraphale tutted as he held onto the dashboard for dear life, “We are extremely early. There is no need to worry.”

Oh, Crowley felt like a bastard for not mentioning this bit of information. But if he had, then Aziraphale would be on the next flight home. There was no question about it.

Besides, it’s not as though Crowley didn’t have ample experience keeping Hell unaware of the Arrangement.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good God, I feel bad for leaving this un-updated for so long. What can I say but COVID?

It was a miracle that they found a spot with a nice view of the rocket’s set up. People had been camping out on the beach for days, but after looking for a short while, there was one empty space just big enough for a small morning picnic. Off the coast was a small island, with the towering thing that would carry three people to the moon.

Among the crowd, there was a murmur of excitement. Aziraphale could sense it radiating off every single person standing on the beach. Children nearby tossed an American football back and forth. A few people whispered excitedly as they noticed the English-accented couple making their way between all the others. Nearby, someone was listening to a portable radio, with the radio host chatting about the Apollo program. But mostly, the crowd kept an awed eye on the rocket standing to attention and ant-sized mechanics in jumpsuits dashing around making final adjustments. 

There was hardly a cloud in sight -- the sky was as blue as it could be. The morning sun shone down on them, but it had not yet eliminated the chill from the night before. A most gentle breeze was coming in from the ocean. It was a perfect day for spaceflight. After reminding his listeners the names of the astronauts, the radio host switched to the song “Blue Moon.”

He could hardly believe it; he was here with Crowley. His heart fluttered with a sudden bolt of anxiety, which he rushed to smother. It would be awful to be so nervous when this moment was so incredibly important to Crowley. Aziraphale smiled over at him as they settled down on a picnic blanket. 

Crowley didn’t smile back. In fact, he looked far more terrified than delighted. 

Aziraphale rested a hand on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, “Are you alright, my dear boy?” 

His head shot around to Aziraphale. Face paled, but voice as cool as ever, “Yeah. What’s up?” 

“It’s quite an exciting day ahead of us.”

“Right.” 

He saw the way that Crowley remained tense and frowned, “There’s no need to worry yourself.”

“No need to worry?” Crowley laughed, “Look what those bloody idiots are doing. Sitting inside a flimsy tin can and hoping that it might keep them safe from bloody space. They’re humans, not sardines.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Aziraphale sighed, “Putting themselves in danger is perhaps the most human thing one can do, don’t you think? Especially when it’s in the service of gaining knowledge. Is the Serpent of Eden really having second thoughts about that?” 

“It’s not--” he sighed, dropping his head into his hands, “I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“Crowley, you know nothing will go wrong. Now, you must be feeling peckish about now.”

“I suppose,” his shoulders shrugged. 

“Reach into the bag then,” Aziraphale pushed the paper grocery bag towards him. Crowley did so, and felt something that managed to make a smile slither across his face. 

“Really?” he said, “A whole supermarket full of things and you had to get an apple?”

Aziraphale enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his skin, trying not to look pleased with himself, “I don’t know, it seemed... fitting.”

“Getting thrown out of the garden all over again, expanding their reach into the big bad world--or universe now--and making it livable. Ah humanity, you never change.”

“Wonderful, isn’t it?”

Crowley looked at the apple in his hand, bright and shiny red, and offered it up to Aziraphale. The angel took it almost without thinking and began to chow down. 

“After all this time, I’ve still got it.”

“You certainly do,” Aziraphale indulged him. He glanced over at the demon, expecting him to look calmer, if not pleased at their easy, centuries-old banter. Instead, he was cautiously looking over his shoulder. At first he thought that he was listening close to the radio host, who had begun to speak again -- giving a brief rundown of the ten previous Apollo missions. However, he wasn’t focusing on the radio, but rather scanning the crowd the same way either of them did during their clandestine meetings in the park.

Aziraphale felt the pull of paranoia reaching into him as well, but refused to give into it. After so many careful years, it was hard to allow oneself to relax, for sure. But, for Crowley, he would attempt it. He refused to look away from the apple in his hand and the rocketship on the horizon. 

“Hey, angel?” he said as the radio transitioned to “It’s Only a Paper Moon.”

“Yes?” 

Crowley waved his hand towards the spectacle ahead of them, “Who do you think is responsible for all this, huh?” 

“Scientists, I suspect.”

“No, I mean… yours or mine? Who’ll take credit?”

Aziraphale took a moment to chew the bite of apple in his mouth before answering, “Not mine, certainly.”

“Really?” he frowned.

“Really. I’m afraid to say, your interest in astronomy is considered rather demonic according to head office.”

“Oh good,” Crowley said, sounding more worried than ever, “I was worried it would ruin my reputation.”

“So…” Aziraphale cautioned, “Is it your side that is responsible?”

“I’m not sure…” he glanced up to the cloudless blue vast above him, “I mean, appreciating all of God’s creations out there doesn’t exactly scream hell, does it?” 

“I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Besides, what sins does this fulfill? I can’t think of a single--”

“Oh, pride. Easily,” Aziraphale said, “Pride, probably some envy. Covetousness as well--”

“Coveting-- what,” Crowley shot a look over both shoulders again, “Like greed?” 

“Coveting the whole moon. What else would that be but greed?”

“Right. Of course. Course,” he said, “Makes total sense. Except, wait,” he pointed at Aziraphale, “Just going to the moon isn’t coveting. They aren’t taking the bloody thing home, it’d be far too heavy for one thing--”

“As much as I love to answer your theological questions, dear, I’m surprised you’re even asking them. I thought this was intended as a vacation from the old job.”

“Well, you know me. Curiosity’s as big as… well, as big as that buggering rocket over there.” 

“I hope you don’t mind my saying, but I’d rather not discuss business while we’re here.” 

“Says Mr. Thwarting-And-Nothing-Untoward.”

“I’m saving my thwarting energy for later, thank you very much. Besides, I haven’t seen many wiles as of yet,” he took a large bite of his apple. Crowley shot him a smirk.

“Oh,” Aziraphale glanced down at the half-eaten apple in his hand, “Oh, I’ve fallen for your tricks once again. The powers of hell are just too great.”

“Damn right.”

Crowley looked over his shoulder again, just when “Fly Me to the Moon” began playing. His third look. That couldn’t have been coincidence, and was certainly more than a fleeting twinge of paranoia. Although, Aziraphale didn’t have any time to ask about it.

 _“One minute to takeoff,”_ came loud and clear over nearby speakers. The radio turned down. All the news reporters got in a few final words before just letting the cameras roll. A teacher tried desperately to get his students to settle down and watch. And an angel and a demon stood up straight, wordlessly watching. 

As each number was rattled off, counting down, tension built. Finally, everyone grew silent. No one breathed. No one moved. 

_“T-minus ten… Nine…”_

Smoke began to billow out of the ship. It rolled across the island, beginning to obscure their view ever so slightly.

_“Eight… Seven… Six…_

A whirring sound started suddenly as the engine winded into action.

_“Five… Four…”_

You could almost hear the stomachs lurching from anticipation. At this point no one dared even blink, no matter how bright the scene was becoming. 

_“Three… Two… One… Zero…”_

The fires started in earnest. All the smoke that had been collecting suddenly flew away and the supports began to fall. The rocket shook and slowly began to lift from the ground. With great effort, it defied gravity and began its astronomical journey. 

_“We have liftoff.”_

A roll of cheers waved over the crowds, and indeed, over the entire world that was watching the broadcast live. The rocket picked up speed the further it got from the ground, and soon they all had to crane their necks to follow the line of smoke to the flashing fire of the rocket’s engine. A few kids began to wave goodbye to the astronauts. 

A thunderous crash jolted Aziraphale out of his clapping, and he instinctively reached his left hand out, bumping against Crowley’s arm. 

“Breaking the sound barrier,” Crowley said, “They’re officially going faster than the speed of sound.”

There was that look again. Aziraphale saw it peeking over the top of his round sunglasses. Any trace of anxiety flushed out by the wonderment that filled his eyes and widened his pupils. The source of it was obvious, the rocket’s image projected on his glasses. 

It wasn’t long before it disappeared into the firmament, leaving behind only a trail of smoke that was quickly dissipating into the air. But even after the rocket was out of sight, no one dared look away. 

That is, until someone cleared his throat into a microphone and caused a squeal of frequency to ring out on the speakers. 

“Is this thing on?” he said, gruffly. Aziraphale looked around to find a podium he hadn’t really noticed before. It sat on a raised platform to tower over the crowds of beach-going spectators. Behind it stood a man in a black suit, surrounded by similar-looking men in similar-looking black suits, “It’s on? Okay.”

He manipulated his face into a publicly-approved smile, “Senator Dowling here. Good morning everyone, and what a good morning it is. We have witnessed history here, folks--”

“Let’s split,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale grabbed onto his arm, “Wait one second.”

Dowling continued, “--And given this historic moment, I would like to remind everyone of another way you have all made history: with my most recent re-election--”

Crowley rolled his eyes, “Do you really want to listen to this?”

“Look,” Aziraphale pointed to one of the suits by Dowling’s side, “Do you see what I see?”

“Oh… shit.”

Normally, eyes tended to slide over people with suits. And Crowley’s eyes did slide over them. But, upon closer inspection, one of the suits was not a man. In fact, they were just barely keeping together a human facade. Itching at their collar like they couldn’t wait to get back to the sulfur-scented halls of their home. Keeping their beady eyes on the speaker as though it were the most inspiring speech in the last century. Which it wasn’t.

“Ah, yes. My re-election,” he went on, “I would like to give a big thank you to anyone who supported my campaign, financial or… otherwise. To anyone at all who helped me get to where I am today--”

“Now is the time to leave, Crowley,” he tugged on his sleeve, “We haven’t been seen yet.” 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

They weaved through the crowded beach together. Back towards where the Cadillac sat waiting for them. They piled into the car which sped away as though it had always been dreaming of being used as a getaway car. The radio switched on, playing “Bad Moon Rising” on full volume.

“Woah, hold your horsepower,” said Crowley, “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

“On the contrary,” Aziraphale said, quite out of character, “I think we need to leave as fast as we possibly can.”

“Ngk,” he acquiesced, slamming the gas pedal right down to the floor. 

As the car maneuvered through the wide streets, Aziraphale shot worried looks out the window, and to the driver of the car. The driver who, meanwhile, fastidiously kept his eyes on the road ahead, refusing to look to his side. From the angle, Aziraphale could just see under his sunglasses. The worry was back, and he realized it had never truly gone away.

Aziraphale began to speak softly, his voice nearly drowned out by the engine, though Crowley heard every word.

“Crowley… Demons were there--” 

“ _A_ demon.” 

“A _demon_ was there,” Aziraphale shut his eyes, “And you knew about it.”

“Yeah,” he cautioned, “I mean--I saw them the same as you--”

“No, you knew about it _before_ all that.”

Crowley sputtered, swerving the car, “What are you saying--?”

“Please drive steady, dear,” he threw his hands onto the dashboard to hold on, “Well, I don’t know exactly. But you knew _something_. Why else would you have been so utterly frightened from the moment we set foot on the beach?”

“Arghh,” he gripped at the steering wheel tightly, “Look, I’m sorry alright. I should have told you that I spotted them.”

“You--you spotted them? When?”

“Well…” Crowley’s voice dropped to a low grumble, “More like they spotted me.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snapped, “When were you planning on mentioning this?” 

He ran a nervous hand through his hair, “Right. If I’m going to be truly honest--never!” 

“Never?” He scoffed. 

“I didn’t know they’d bloody show up to the launch, did I?”

“No, perhaps there’s some other world-changing event going on in our vicinity!” Aziraphale said. 

“I thought, if we just get through today--well--”

“You thought you could just manage to keep me in the dark!”

Crowley shut his eyes, and the Cadillac picked up for any deficiencies in driving, “I’m sorry, okay. I… I should have told you.” 

“You most certainly should have,” Aziraphale looked out the window for a moment, and Crowley thought the matter might have been dropped. All hopes of this crumbled when he turned back, seemingly intent on saying his peace.

“Answer me this,” Aziraphale wavered, his eyes flickering between Crowley’s clenched fists on the wheel, his lips, and the bit of his eyes that he could see, “Why do you have so little regard for your own life?”

“I said I’m so--” Crowley furrowed his brows, “Wha-- _my_ life?”

“Yes, your life!” Aziraphale huffed, “Why else would I be shouting?” 

“I don’t know, maybe because of your position in heaven! The chance that you might capital-F Fall!”

“No-- the important thing is, what will Hell do to _you_ if they find you here? With me?”

“Well, what will Heaven do to _you?_ ” Crowley snapped back. 

“What happens to me doesn’t matter, but you--” They paused, letting the car chime in with its revving engine. “You…” he trailed off. 

The thought of Crowley’s destruction being so close at hand made it all the more difficult to put words into any coherent order in his head. The unsaid clung to them in the awkward silence, furling around their heads like the plumes of smoke the rocket had left behind. Neither one had the energy left to continue to fuel the argument, so they left the smoke to slowly wither into the air around them, until all that was left was the faint fogginess of vision and scent of burning. And when the tension and argument dissipated enough, perhaps they could go back to pretending it wasn’t there.

Then, Aziraphale folded his hands neatly back on his lap, shutting down. With only a trace of the heightened emotions from before, he asked, “Shall we pack our bags?”

At that moment, the radio crinkled from the music it had been playing to the sound of an American-accented demon, “Hey, uh, is this Crowley?”

“Yup!” he said with a frantic glance over to his passenger, “Just me!” 

“Are you free to meet?”

“Yeah, groovy,” Crowley responded cooley. Aziraphale mouthed, _groovy?_

“Right,” the voice responded, “I’ll send you the location of my hideout.” 

The knowledge was dropped in Crowley’s head and he swerved around the road with the sudden shock of it. By the time he had righted the course, with Aziraphale clinging to the dashboard for dear life, the Demon of Greed was fully exorcised from the car radio. 

Crowley gently pulled the car over and took a breath. He glanced at his passenger who looked back with eyes as wide as the full moon. And then Crowley said, “It looks like we’re staying a bit longer.”


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley sauntered up to the bank where Mammon had set up a temporary base of operations. 

They were one of the more creative demons, which was in all honesty quite surprising to Crowley. Greed isn’t too difficult to deal with. All there is to it is getting people to want more money, and half the time they’ll do that on their own.

But the thing is, greed in and of itself can very quickly spiral out into a multitude of sins as people sprint towards hell in pursuit of wealth. That leaves a lot of room for creativity if a demon really wants to get elbow deep in the grime of humanity. But Crowley wondered how much Mammon’s work actually _did_ in the grand scheme of things. In a lot of cases, these sorts of sins aren’t even really the sinner’s fault, but rather the fault of countless nudges encouraging envy and wanting more. And not even a fraction of those were demon-created. 

Crowley was certain that the foundations for capitalism were as man-made as anything else. Sure a demonic nudge or two helped, but no demon was evil enough to come up with such a sprawling mass of discontentment as that. Mammon was more responsible for the actions of a particularly sordid millionaire rather than the system that allowed for such millionaires to exist. 

As he wandered to the back of the bank, past the poor tellers serving the rich pricks in line, he found Mammon sat at a cluttered desk. They had a phone whose cord, Crowley noticed, dove straight into the ground. 

“Ah, Crowley,” said Mammon, “I’m glad to see you. Big, big fan. Did I say that?”

“Er, you might have mentioned it, yes”

They began digging through their mess of a desk before pulling out a grubby notebook and pen, “Can I have your autograph?”

“Alright then,” said Crowley. He took the notebook and wrote out his practiced signature: Anthony J Crowley.

“Your real name,” said Mammon, “The autograph of the Serpent of Eden will be worth loads back home.”

“Oh.” Crowley scribbled out the name and drew his sigil. It lit the notebook on fire and it wasn’t long until it was just a pile of ashes on the ground, on its way Down Below. Crowley gulped, and shoved his hands in his pockets, “Er, what exactly was it that you were tasked with?”

“Oh, I know it’s tradition to talk over the mission, but I’m sure you don’t need me to explain the details. The brief that head office gave was quite...” they let out a huffed breath, “Quite comprehensive. I trust you understand it.”

Comprehensive mission briefings sounded like the least hellish thing there could be. They usually preferred to let you dither around in confusion while you tried to figure out which definition of possession you were meant to use or where a certain temptation was to take place. The only way you knew if your assumptions were wrong was if you got some kind of warning far past the time when you could do anything about it. 

Crowley remembered one time getting a scolding letter about tempting the wrong Spanish shepherd when it had been about a century since his last visit to Spain. 

The one exception to this is when a mission was something sent from the very top--er, bottom. Satan was fastidious, always dropping all the information in your head that you needed. That way, there were no excuses for failure. 

No wonder Mammon was working so hard.

They pulled up a giant stack of yellowing papers and slammed them on the desk in front of Crowley “I’ve already got the contract all drafted, but as you can probably see, I’m terribly, terribly busy here. There’s just so much opportunity for some good greed around here. If you, tempting serpent that you are, can go convince the target to sign it, that would be very awful of you. There might even be a commendation in it for the two of us if it goes off without a hitch.”

Crowley accepted the bundle of paperwork, “Yeah, er, thanks.” 

As he left the bank, he noted the zeros lighting up in people’s eyes as they exchanged cheques and bills, and threw their money into ever-changing graphs of stocks.

He thought back to when he had stepped through to the back and found Mammon looking very busy at the desk they sat at. It was a rather strange sight-- they looked far busier than most demons taking a workday or two on the surface. Demons typically spent their time trying to take as many breaks as possible. 

But instead, Mammon was taking on all the extra temptation during their little trip. He suddenly thought of the overworked bird-like demon with sympathy. They were far out of their element up here, uncomfortable in the corporeal suit and shedding feathers all over their temporary back office.

He brought the paperwork back to the hotel room, where a nervous Aziraphale paced around the small space waiting for him to return. He let out a breath of relief when Crowley stepped through, “Oh thank God.”

“When was the last time you heard about something like this,” he threw down the paperwork.

Aziraphale pulled out his reading glasses and frowned at the contract, which looked as though it was written out in a dead language with blood.*

(*Not real blood, of course. Blood was terribly inconvenient to write with, but the important thing to demons was that something _looked_ like it was written in blood. Made it all the more official. Humans never took demonic contracts seriously otherwise.)

“I thought that your side had phased this sort of thing out,” said Aziraphale, flipping through it.

“They did. For Satan’s sake, I can’t even remember the last time I was involved in a contracting job.”

“Early 19th century, I believe, was the last time,” Aziraphale shot him a pointed look, he paused for a moment and began to sigh contentedly, “Niccolò Paganini, it was. I remember because I brought back a jar of lovely Genoan pesto after that one.”

“Violinist, yes. That sounds about right.” 

“I think I’ve got a few of his concertos on a gramophone record, though nothing comes close to seeing him play in person. He really made use of that deal, didn’t he?”

Crowley shook his head, “Anyway, forget about all that. Who the bloody hell am I supposed to be getting to sign away their soul now? They never said.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, “I think that is fairly obvious.” 

“Enlighten me.”

“Who else but the politician with whom the demon was sharing a stage? That can’t possibly have been a coincidence.”

“Gosh,” said Crowley defeatedly, falling back onto the bed with a dejected groan. 

“It’s not the end of the world,” Aziraphale said, “At least we know that Mammon doesn’t suspect anything of you--well, other than that you’re a helpful, hardworking demon.”

“Nghh,” he said into the pillow, “But a contract? Do you even recall the Debacle of The Fourteenth Century?”

“Now, I would hardly call that a debacle--”

“I’d call nearly getting burnt at the stake at least a minor debacle, angel. And then the second you swooped in, all my documents were signed within the hour. A dozen souls under my belt. My singed belt.” 

“Have you really never sold a contract?”

“Yeah, yeah, no need to rub it in,” Crowley threw his head up to respond, “Tempting’s my job. S’what I’m good at. Not bloody contract law.”

Aziraphale paced around the room, taking in this new information with his hands firmly kept behind his back, “Alright... If I read through the document tonight, I’ll be able to coach you properly. And then tomorrow, you can go sell this contract.”

Before Crowley could protest, Aziraphale was already placing his reading glasses delicately on his nose and flipping through the convoluted, blood-colored script. He wouldn’t have paid attention, even if Crowley had said anything. 

He sighed and made his way over to the phone to order a full spread of room service which arrived promptly and was placed on the side table for Aziraphale’s leisure. Corwley grabbed the blanket and settled up for a nice night sleeping on the hotel’s luxury ceiling. 

The next morning, they went out to a classic diner, which had all the charm that Crowley was expecting. If they were in an American film, this might be a place for them to meet inconspicuously. The booth with cracked red leather seats kept their conversations semi-private and the servers seemed tired enough not to care about what they were saying anyway. The portions were huge and the coffee was jolting. 

Aziraphale placed the thick pile of papers between them.

“It’s a very simple document, all in all. It’s only dressed up in language to make it much longer than it could have been. Here--” Aziraphale pointed to one of the messy lines of text, “Outlines the rewards for signing it. It’s the basic sort of package one would expect: power, fame, fortune. In fact, I wonder if it’s simply copied from an older contract.”

“That would make sense considering the writers for these things have long since been assigned to other stuff. Poking things with pitchforks, fanning flames, you know, whatever needs doing.”

“Now, the second half of the document is all about what Hell gets in return.”

“His soul,” Crowley said, “Presumably. That’s how these things go.”

“Not quite, actually.” Aziraphale said somberly, “Well, yes, but there’s more to it than that. I think you should hear about this: all the rewards are being offered for the price of the souls of, not just the man who signs it, but his entire family line until Armageddon.”

Crowley choked on his coffee, “What? It says all that?”

“It specifies in great detail-- it’s the family line that matters, not the bloodline.” Aziraphale gave a worried look to Crowley, “What exactly is Hell planning?”

“How the heaven should I know? It’s not like them to pull something like this! Dragging a whole family into the fold. I thought it was supposed to be about free will, all this business. Being presented with the options and making the wrong one, not being bloody born into evil.”

“Apparently, Hell disagrees with you there.”

Crowley looked glumly down to his coffee. The waitress arrived at this moment, placing a big breakfast plate in front of Aziraphale and asking in a pleasant southern drawl, “Are you sure you don’t want anything, sir?” to Crowley.

“M’fine.”

“Well, let me know, alright honey?”

As the waitress left, Aziraphale turned back into action planning mode, only slightly hindered by the fact that he was devouring a scrumptious Full American until he was a full English. 

“I can’t do this,” Crowley said, his head in his hands. 

“You can, dear boy.”

“I can’t. I’m hopeless. Hopelessly screwed. Satan is going to drag me back home himself. You know, he’s the one who sent Mammon here, right? So it’s not just any job, it’s not just any job. This one’s got consequences.”

Aziraphale took a bite of his food and settled deep into his thoughts. 

“It’s no use,” Crowley went on, playing with the sugar packets, “You know, if you wanted to go home right now and leave me to my fate here in America, well... I wouldn’t blame you.”

He took an angelic sip of the coffee, pouting slightly at the fact that it had cooled down when he wasn’t paying attention to it. 

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess. I’ll book you a flight today and everything. I just--I’m sorry.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said, “Be a dear and change the music for me. This bebop isn’t conducive to thinking.”

“Er,” Crowley said, shoving his sunglasses up his nose, “Alright.” He stood on lanky legs and stumbled over to the 50’s style jukebox in the corner of the dining area. He looked for something a bit more Aziraphale-oriented and among the doo-wop, there was a single miraculous Paganini track in the listing. Crowley pressed the lit-up buttons that corresponded to it. Soon, a pretty violin song began playing. 

He returned to a contented angel, sitting in the booth and munching away at his pancakes, eggs, bacon, and all the other decadence of an American breakfast. 

“Mm,” Aziraphale hummed, “I don’t think anyone plays this as good as the composer himself did.”

“Right,” Crowley said.

“You know, that was actually a rather difficult negotiation, me and Paganini. He was rather young when this assignment came upon you and was thus quite unwilling to sign his soul away--understandably so, I might add.”

“How’d you do it, in the end?”

“Oh, well, it really comes down to the spectacle of the thing. You have to play up being a demon. It’s nothing worse than throwing in a peal of maniacal laughter in every now and then.”

Crowley sat up and squinted, “All these years, and I never once imagined you doing an evil laugh. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.”

“Well, it’s not just the laughter. It’s the charm, the swagger,” Aziraphale said bashfully. “It’s quite fun, actually.”

“Still can’t picture it. Would you…?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. 

“Come on. You can’t just tell me about your demonic persona and refuse to demonstrate.”

“In any case,” Aziraphale ignored him, “Acting demonic is half the battle.”

“What’s the other half?”

“One must figure out what exactly the signer has something faltering in their lives. Make sure to tailor whatever you offer to their exact wishes. In my case, it’s easy as wishing someone to dream about the things they like best. It’s far easier to do that via miracle than by words.”

“It can’t be as simple as that,” Crowley said, “I’ve bloody tried to sell contracts onto people tons of times. I just--I can’t do it. I’ve never been able to.”

“I’ve always been adept with these skills,” Aziraphale said, “That’s how I know what to do to sell exactly zero books back at the shop. Even the worst salesperson would at least sell one.” 

Aziraphale sat expectantly on the other side of the table, and took another bite, attempting to see through the dark sunglasses that concealed all of Crowley’s worry. The violin slowly faded away and another, perhaps more time-appropriate song followed it. 

“You know what, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and the angel shifted his bowtie eagerly until the demon continued, “You are leaving right now. You’re going back to London, back to the bookshop where there are no little demons hanging around to throw you into a pit of fire.”

Aziraphale deflated slightly, “I’m not leaving you all alone in this country.”

“You really ought to!”

“Well, I don’t want to.”

“You really want to be stuck with me while I, in all likelihood, screw up in front of a prestigious demon and get a rather harsh punishment for it. Gee, I didn’t know you were such a sadist--”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snapped, “When are you going to ask me to sell the contract for you?”

Crowley froze, “Ask you to do what?”

He gestured to the stack of papers, “To get the politician to sign this. That’s all I’m waiting for.”

He shook his head, “No. No, I’m not going to ask you that.”

“Why not?”

“I just--I can’t!”

“It would hardly be the first time,” Aziraphale said, half laughing, “Hardly even the dozenth. I’ve taken care of so many of these contracts for you, what makes this time different?”

Crowley let out a breath. What was different? _What was different?_ Swapping one miracle with one temptation was their modus operandi for the whole Arrangement. Favors were cashed in and cashed out, debt ran freely across both sides as an ever-ebbing tide. 

Couldn’t Aziraphale see how things had changed?

“I… I can’t ask that of you. It’s too much.”

Aziraphale’s face softened, “Oh, my dear,” he said, still not seeming to understand the gravity of the situation, “I assure you, it is something I can handle.” 

“It’s not that I think you can’t...It’s just… It’s too much.” Too fast, perhaps. 

Aziraphale said gently, “Do you have any better ideas, hm?”

Crowley’s gaze fell grimly to his coffee.

“I’m going to take that as a no, then,” Aziraphale said, taking another bite of the pancakes on his plate, “In which case, I’d like a lift over to the senator’s public event today.” 

“Ngh,” Crowley said, giving into the angel’s _look,_ because what other choice was there?

“Quite,” Aziraphale concurred.


End file.
